


You Know War, It Has No Heart

by sarken



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Episode: Abyssinia Henry, Gen, References to Canonical Character Death, Yuletide 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night, three weeks after Henry left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know War, It Has No Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lettered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/gifts).



> Title from "No One Would Riot for Less" by Bright Eyes. Thanks to J for the beta.

Henry left three weeks ago.

That's how Trapper thinks of it: Henry left. Sidney might call it denial, but Trapper doesn't think that's right -- it's just easier to think about Henry leaving than to think about what happened after. Still, he can't avoid it, and when Hawkeye gets onto the chopper that will take him to the plane that will fly him over the Sea of Japan, Trapper can hear Radar's voice and the clatter of instruments falling to the floor.

"I have a message," Radar says, no surgical mask muffling his words. "Captain... Hawkeye Pierce's plane..."

Trapper hears it that night, too, in the emptiness of the Swamp. Hawk's been in Tokyo for hours, but that doesn't stop Trapper's mind, driven into overactivity by the boredom of the lull, from seeing Hawkeye's corner stripped of all his possessions and waiting for a replacement.

His cot creaks when he turns over. It creaks again when he sighs.

"Terrific," he says to no one. He knows he's not going to sleep, not between Radar's voice and the instruments falling and his cot creaking with every breath, so he gets up. He could use a belt, but the still has been dry for days. Even if it hadn't, the last thing Trapper wants tonight is to drink alone in this tent.

He puts his boots on over holey socks and steps out into the night. The wooden door rattles when it shuts behind him, and the gravel and dirt crunch beneath his feet as he walks to the O-Club, hands stuffed in the pockets of his terrycloth robe.

It's quiet there, too, just like it's been since Henry left. There's no swing playing on the jukebox, no tables pushed aside for corpsmen and nurses to dance the Lindy, no raucous laughter or impending fights. There is only Zale in the corner, drinking alone, and Igor a table away, a game of Solitaire laid out in front of him.

And Hot Lips, sitting at the bar.

Seeing her is almost enough to make Trapper leave. She's been close to decent the last three weeks, and Trapper doesn't like it, not any more than he likes Hawk's empty bunk or the silence of the jukebox. It might be one of the few positives to come out of this rotten mess, but it's still all wrong.

He pulls his robe closed, right side over left, and ties the belt. It doesn't feel right, so he tightens it as he walks up to the bar.

"Evenin', Miss Margaret," he says in his best Southern drawl, which he knows isn't very good. He drops it. "Where's your lesser half?"

"If you're referring to Major Burns," she says, sounding more like herself than she has in days, "I believe the major is in his quarters, asleep."

Trapper raises his eyebrows as he sits, leaving a stool between them. "Without you? Can he do that?"

Margaret sighs, the kind of sigh with an inhalation as heavy as the exhalation. "Captain McIntyre, if you're here to antagonize me, I--" Her voice falters, and the _Major Houlihan_ shifts out of her tone. "I'd prefer that you didn't."

"What if I'm here to buy you a drink?" He turns to the bartender. "A Zombie for me, and a..."

"Nothing," Margaret says. What's left in her glass looks like whiskey, straight. "I'm fine."

"And another I'm fine for the major," he tells the bartender, who nods and sets to work. Trapper reaches for the basket of stale pretzels sitting near the end of the bar, hooking it with his finger and sliding it closer. He puts the basket between them, aligned with the empty stool. "Listen, Margaret--"

" _Major_ , Captain."

"Listen, _Major_." He says her rank as harshly and as pointedly as she did, but he can't keep it up. He grabs a pretzel stick, taps it against the bar, and then thinks better of eating it. He tosses it back into the basket when the bartender returns with their drinks. "Listen, thanks for reining Frank in these last couple of weeks. I know everyone around here appreciates it."

Margaret is quiet. She tilts her glass, watching the liquid spread up the side. "Regardless of what you might believe, Captain, the major and I are as affected by the lieutenant colonel's -- by what happened to Colonel Blake as every other member of this camp. It's with a heavy heart that Major Burns is leading this unit."

"I didn't know Frank had a heart." The insult is a reflex, and part of him regrets it. The rest of him is relieved to see the familiar way Hot Lips squares her shoulders and sits up taller, indignation on her face when she turns toward him, mouth partway open to tell him off.

He holds up his hands, palms out, defense and surrender. "That was a dumb thing to say. I apologize."

Hot Lips purses her lips. "Henry Blake was a lousy commanding officer," she says, and she finishes off her drink, tilting her head back to swallow and then thunking her glass down on the bar. "He didn't belong in the military." 

Trapper waits. He remembers a day she went to pieces in his arms, the chin straps from her helmet tangled in her hair. He might not be sure about Frank, but he thinks he is sure about her.

"He never should have been here." Margaret wraps both hands around the second glass of whiskey, her shoulders hunching forward as she stares down into it. Her mouth pulls to the side, angry and contemplative. "What a waste."

The way she says it, exhaustion edging on bitterness, makes her sound like one of them -- like him or Hawkeye or Henry -- and it throws Trapper. This war is a waste of life after life, but he didn't know how much he needed her to believe in it.

He takes the first sip of his drink, just the overproof rum on top. He wants the burn.

"Listen, Margaret," he says, and this time, she doesn't stop him. This time, she looks at him, and she's not wearing her helmet, but there are tears in her eyes.

He scoots over onto the empty stool.

"Listen," he says again, and he puts an arm around her.

It's been three weeks since Henry died, and he doesn't know what else to say.


End file.
